“So my name is Frank Miller. Where do I come from? What is my new history?”
“You are an American. Make up your history. Change it to fit the circumstances. Frankly, I hope you will not need to explain it.”
“How can I get in touch with you?”
“You can’t.”
“So I am to be an inanimate object, a live weapon. I must keep it cocked and ready until you choose its target.”
He made the sign of a pistol with his fingers.
“It sounds so… so childishly simple… and a little ridiculous.”
“Exactly — deliberately childish and simple. As for ridiculous, we shall see.”
Beria, after all, was an expert on such matters, running a vast worldwide spy network — actually, a spy network within a spy network. The man was clever and cunning, a genius. One day, Dimitrov speculated, he will be Stalin’s successor, and he, Dimitrov, would be his trusted lieutenant, powerful and feared. It was his dream.
“And if I’m caught, General?” Mueller asked.
“Depends, Mueller. If caught before the act, you will probably be a corpse. If caught after, you could be lionized in some quarters, perhaps notorious, famous forever.”
“And if I run?”
“You will not run far.”
Dimitrov liked the man’s cool arrogance and humor. The preparations had been elaborate, indicating that Beria considered this assignment a matter of great importance. Yet he could not contain his speculation as to whom Beria had in mind for Mueller’s mission. One of ours? Or one of theirs? Beria did not discriminate. Enemies were everywhere, within and without.
Dimitrov knew that there were a number of other potential Soviet assassins loose in America and elsewhere, but this one would be special, an unreconstructed Nazi. It occurred to him that he was the only living soul who was exposed to Mueller, who knew his face. He felt great pride in this illustration of Beria’s faith and trust in him.
“And in the meantime?” Mueller asked.
“Fill your time. Read. Go to movies. Beat your monkey.” Dimitrov chuckled. “You SS are supposed to be masters of discipline. Obey Mr. Himmler’s rules: Live clean. No whiskey. No drugs. Concentrate all your thoughts on killing your enemies. Think Jews. Think Bolsheviks. Enjoy your hate, comrade. It will keep you warm.”
“It will indeed, comrade,” Mueller snickered.
“Exactly. Hate will keep you alive.”
Dimitrov had observed the man’s ruminations in his expression.
“And after? If there is an after?” Mueller asked.
“You will have earned our gratitude,” Dimitrov said.
Mueller started to speak, then aborted what he was going to say.
“Yes,” Dimitrov said, certain of what Mueller had in mind. “What is the American expression about a hook?”
“Off the hook,” Mueller said.
Dimitrov put a hand over his heart.
“When the job is successfully achieved, you are, yes, as you say ‘off the hook.’ You have my word.”
Mueller frowned, telescoping his disbelief.
“I will owe my life to your word? What does that mean?”
“We will destroy your written confession.”
The man is not a naïve fool, Dimitrov thought, considering all the possibilities of an aftermath. For Mueller, he knew, there could be no future.
“So that is the carrot?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand….”
“To keep me motivated.”
Dimitrov said, “You will have to trust me, Mueller.”
“Do I have another option?”
Dimitrov shrugged, smiled, and shook his head from side to side.
Suddenly, they heard the low hum of an outboard motor. A small rubber boat came into view. Beyond the boat, they could see nothing in the blackness. They moved toward the edge of the beach and Dimitrov took a flashlight from his overcoat pocket and blinked it. The boat headed toward the beach.
Dimitrov turned toward Mueller.
“I wish you luck, Obersturmbannführer.”
“Give my regards to the Führer, General.”
He stood for a moment facing Dimitrov. Then raised his arm.
“Heil Hitler!”
Chapter 5
“So why did he accept?” Todd Baker, managing editor of the Washington Star asked, sitting on the edge of Spencer Benson’s desk.
“Harry is introducing him,” Spencer Benson said.
“They’ve announced that?”
“Not yet.” Spencer winked. “I have my sources.”
Benson smiled his cat-who-ate-the-canary smile. He was sandy-haired, brown-eyed, freckled, and still boyish in his late thirties. His smile was lopsided, and when he grinned, his eyes squinted. People said he had an endearing air about him, useful to disarm interview subjects, which was his specialty. He was the Washington Star’s top feature writer.
“Makes sense,” Baker said. “Missouri is Harry’s home state. The Midwest is in.”
“And Churchill is out,” Spencer reminded him.
“You think you can wheedle some idea of what he will talk about? He’s in Miami with his wife.”
“So I’ve heard. But I’m told he’s not doing interviews.”
“He loves interviews.”
“I suppose he’s being coy.”
“Come on, Spence, you’ve got the inside track. You don’t have to say what we’re really after. Feature is your turf, not hard news. Be a coup for us.”
“We’re not dating anymore, Todd. Besides, Sarah is on the West Coast making a movie.”
“So you are in touch?”
“We’re still friends,” Benson muttered, blushing.
A month of passionate intensity didn’t make a lasting relationship. It was a fling. She was a delight, but her own person, not given to anything permanent — too rich for his blood. Drank too much. Wore him out in bed. And she had too many active lovers. Not his style. He was a one-woman-at-a-time man. Besides, he had obligations to his two children who lived in Bethesda with his ex-wife.
“As the Brits say: give it a go,” Baker said with authority. “I’m looking for a news peg. Maybe you can fish it out of him. Why this little college in the middle of nowhere? Why now? What’s the big deal? Fish around in Washington. You’ve got connections; use them.”
His first call was to Donald Maclean, first secretary of the British embassy. Lord Halifax was the ambassador but dependent on Maclean to run the embassy. Sarah had introduced them at the height of their affair, and he invited them to a plushy dinner at the embassy. Maclean had called him after the dinner, and they had had lunch at the Cosmos Club, a male bastion for both the intellectual aristocracy and the powered meritocracy.
He was a charming, urbane, upper-class Englishman who cultivated journalists. Physically impressive, with his slim build, swept-back blond hair, six-foot-four height, always dressed elegantly in exquisitely tailored Saville Row pinstripes, he was straight out of central casting for the authentic version of the quintessential British diplomat. He knew everyone, was socially ubiquitous, and was rumored, despite a wife and children, to be a womanizer. There were also dark whispers about his being something of a switch-hitter sexually. But then, the Brits private school system was notorious for such propensities.
“It baffles me, Donald,” Benson said, offering his boyish smile. “Why this little college in the boonies?”
“A favor to your President,” Maclean said. “Favors, Benson, the system runs on them. Harry probably owed one of the trustees something from his Prendergast days. His buddy Vaughn was probably involved. Mustn’t forget old Harry is a ward healer at heart. He obviously promised them a big fish. Winnie will flash his V and puff his stogie, and the great unwashed will go wild.”